


Who Waits Forever Anyway?

by discodeaky65



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-12-25 12:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discodeaky65/pseuds/discodeaky65
Summary: With the devastating consequences of playing dead to get out of duty, James Bond finds reality hard to grasp with the responsibilities thought to be long gone taking their toll on him and the return of a past flame he'd sworn never to see again; operation Skyfall suddenly brings him from his petulant stubborn mindset and the realisation MI6 don't have a chance against the cyber-terrorist without him.Shortly after hearing her old life is in threat of being exposed to the world, she takes her step up to help fight with hopes everything isn't yet decided for her.*Kinda based from the song "Who Wants To Live Forever" by "Queen"





	1. James Bond

 

* * *

Pre-Skyfall

 

"The job's done, that bitch is dead"

_-James Bond, Casino Royale (2006)_

 

_**July 15th 2011** _

_**London, England** _

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_James Bond_ **

 

 

In one man's silence, another triggers breaks through; through the unshielded surprise of every man that has fallen victim to the infamous Walther PPK.   Every shadow that follows him, will be stopped in fatal conduct more than self-defense.   Every droplet of blood that had stained his fingers? He'd have at least two fountains by now.  Two Fountains, that's enough to make him sound like a Blood thirsty murderer only out to kill for thrills.  No body could've been more wrong when it comes to the brain, the mind of James Bond.   His orphan childhood was no excuse, Vesper Lynd's death was no excuse, not even his own death was an excuse. The only people he'd cared for...  Gone! Murdered by the bad ones, the Goons, the Villains.

 

_For Britain._

 

The reason he was the unemotional, stiff infamous jackass that he was, wasn't it obvious? He was a man of Civilization, a man of proper common sense and ableness than any other Agent in the game.   He was no Simon Templar, yet, he shared the multilingualism that The Saint had, perfecting his secret identity and acting like any normal person in a foreign country that looked odd compared to the greats of France or Germany.  But, beneath his proudness, his ego of the three numbers. One thing annoyed him greatly, thoughts that seemed to sink through his mind and bringing a numbness, a sharp pain as of he truly were drowning with no escape.

 

_Is it always going to be this way? Is it always going to be pulling a trigger?_

 

He stopped abruptly, staring into the shine of the silver pocket watch, the chain coldly rubbing against the sensitive tips of his fingers and he only acknowledges the watch with dissatisfaction. The amount of explosions, blows that the ruddy piece of metal had survived must've been damn well endless and he was curious to think it were a stroke of luck, or his Father possessing the object.  He found the gap that separated the lid from the mechanism, his thumb nail slipping through# the gap in order to slip back the lid.  The cursive numbers and watch hands telling him with evidence that it is in fact half seven.  He'd better get up, showered and ready to face M after the whole showing no gratitude for stopping Quantum; _The Quantum of Solace that is lost_.   Bond swears nothing makes sense anymore, nothing that runs through his weakening brain.

 

He disliked the new M with a passion,  when he said New, that was more or less twenty years recruited, longer than his own career.  The reason for his gritting of the teeth whenever _she_ is mentioned: Gender, of all things, Gender was something that still mattered to Bond, something that made it clear that he lived in the past instead of the current millennium. She's a bloody woman, how was she supposed to understand fieldwork, the hard labour, the non-bulletproof life that any man could be plain stupid to follow and now a woman seems to think she's able to control what he does. Well, he doesn't think so, in fact, he refuses to co-operate with her.

 

_If she's Boss, I daresay it'll turn to a league of Alec Trevalyns in the making..._

 

Yet, Bond attempted to block out his thoughts on women, it wasn't like anybody would give him the satisfaction of being right. Nobody gave him that rare luxury, too busy mocking his way of handling a situation in the red zone.  He was unemotional, he showed no remorse or guilt for those he killed; didn't that tell them that he was able to do the job he'd been doing for the amount of years he had been?  He was turning forty soon, quite soon.  So, not only was he stiff and unemotional? He was mature, wise with age and that was a damn blessing with being in the Navy and Military for the amount of years he had been.

 

_For Britain._

 

Yes, for his Queen and his Country, just like Alec had once quoted: _For England_.  Though, he announced it as Britain, never just England. By Birth he was a Scot, he was James Andrew Bond and he was Scottish by birth, British by blood.  Nobody like Alec or even M could take his pride away from him, as well as his responsibility.

 

And James Bond is not quite lucid when it arrives. His eyes are thick with sleep, his muddied thoughts just barely teetering on the edge of consciousness. The bite of whisky is still on his breath, accompanied by the dull, unforgiving ache of yet another hangover.

  He runs one weary hand through his blonde hair before fumbling for a glass on the bedside table, letting its cool water soothe his dry mouth and throat. Snippets from last night slip in and out of his awareness as he listens to the distant scatter of falling rain: the pub, the drinks, the careless flirting in between.

 

His hands roam across the sheets only to find them empty, smoothened and cold; the woman from last night has already left him. There's a sliver of regret steeping beneath his skin, but just barely. He scrunches up eyes that are bluer than sapphires, colder than ice, trying to recall what she might've looked like. But all he can remember is tangled hair and soft skin and hard, hungry lips against his. Perhaps she'd slipped away before sunrise. But he isn't bothered. It spares him the awkward indifference of waking up beside another nameless woman. And the guilt of already wanting her gone.

 

He sits up slowly, blinks in the muted tones of grey and rainy blue seeping into his drab bedroom. Clothes are still strewn across the floor, the remnants of another encounter he wishes he could forget. There's an apparent knocking at the door that's crushing against his ears, his temples, his splitting headache. He rolls onto his side, smashing his face into the pillow with a groan. "Christ, make it stop."

 

The rain outside is suddenly violent, roaring against his ears. He's too overwhelmed to think straight; dirty, still reeking of sex and some kind of cheap Scotch. He hastens to the washroom and cranks on the shower, doesn't let it warm before he jumps in. The water stinging like shards of ice against skin, cold enough to hurt, but it won't stop her face from slipping through his mind.

 

_The job's done, that Bitch is dead_

 

It creeps up through the hangover and the headache, a harsh reminder of the woman he's lost. Even as the icy water curtains down his long limbs and freezes his skin, he's still seeing her,  _feeling_ her, every last shred of her warmth. He remembers the way her hands used to brush back his hair when it grew too long. The fire in her eyes when they fought and spat words they'd both regret later. The softness in her voice whenever she curled up on his lap and murmured  _I love you._ And how weakly she'd breathed those same words dying in the waters of Venice, again and again until the vivid flush in her skin faded, paling and blue beneath his trembling hands.


	2. Agent Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an attempt to retrieve a stolen Hard-drive, Bond is shot on-duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might seem really slow at the moment, but I promise the story will develop. Next chapter won't be in Bond's view but my OC. Happy reading Folks!

Skyfall

 

* * *

 

 

_"_ Agent Down,"

-Eve Moneypenny, Skyfall (2012)

 

**August 2011**

****Varda Bridge, Adana, Turkey**  **

 

* * *

 

 

_**James Bond** _

 

_****_ ****

He is standing in a dimly lit corridor, hands gripping the Walther that is slick with warm sweat mixed with droplets of fresh blood only as red as a fresh cut rose.  In only seconds does that sweet moment of satisfaction turn to sour realisation that somehow this assignment isn't going to be a simple shoot to kill excersise and it only causes his blood to loop in his veins while his eyes skim his surroundings with vigilance and sensory overflowing his mindset.   
His brain can't seem to process his whereabouts and his nerves are shakier than the Earth and it's tremors.  

  
The job is all the same really, looking for terrorists and either doing something inhumanely spiteful for answers worth the Government knowledge or pressing a cold trigger to the skull and watching life drain from the enemy's eyes faster than a terrified greyhound.    Sometimes the death of a baddie is deliciously rewarding keeping in mind he's taken one terrorist away and slowly cleaning the world of terrorism- sometimes he feels like the victim, taking a resurrection against someone who holds no significance to his life and never would grant the chance. 

  
_Who wants to live Forever?_

  
The question often enters his mind the moment his hands are the cause of another death,  another soul taken into the ghostly hands of death who must watch the spy-game with his eyeless sockets rolling and his skull like features less surprised but greatly disappointed that the world has become nothing more than endless charades of guns and thorny roses,  even at that Bond decides he too would be disappointed carrying souls of deaths that were hugely avoidable.

  
His feet are moving slow and surely until his eyes and his ears confirm there are no enemies in the near distance.    His body moves toward an unmade bed, on that bed that looks as though death himself has slept soundly there is a model of a Laptop and the gun in his tight grip is now in his jacket pocket while his hands tremble gripping the Laptop and searching for that sole piece of hard-drive.

  
But his ears pick up the faint groan of pain in his surroundings and he notices a familiar figure slumped on the chair not far from the window.  His voice is stable when he voices his findings to the earpiece that is deep inside his left ear,  "Ronson's down." The fellow Agent is struggling to hold back his blood and Bond does the modest thing of helping him with a hankerchief that's been in his inside pocket for God knows long.   "He needs medical evac." He adds, voice holding a bitter tone as he looks at the fellow Agent wondering why he couldn't of been anymore careful and questioning why this particular Agent had to be shot.

  
 She's less than bothered about the wellbeing of one of her Agents and it angers Bond to great scale,  her only insinctive worry is the hardrive that is nowhere to be seen. "Where is it? Is it there?" She was snappy and in all fairness he understands the reason behind her impatience the feelings that must run in her mind, but it doesn't stop him feeling the urge to suddenly teleport and silence her until he can cope with her voice ringing through his ear.

  
 "Hard drive's gone." He confirms and his confirmation is questioned by the head once more,  the temptation to question the soul at the scene growing stronger by the second. She requests that he chases after the enemy, but he looks at Ronson who's soul is creeping from his chest and Bond watches his life begin to drain from him- with guilt that there isn't much else able to be done in this sad moment of reality, and yet his announcement is stubborn as he returns to Ronson's side once more. "I'm stabilizing Ronson."  He wishes to do this in hope that there isn't going to be a subconcious guilt eating away at him for the rest of his days and Ronson only very weakly shakes his head dying stuborn and yet like a hero trying to be brave.   No matter how long he and his boss spend arguing, he always ends up leaving a body behind- his fault or not.

  
He evacuates almost hurriedly, like there's an invisible fire threatening to burn him to ashes if he fails to escape quickly and yet Ronson's still dying in there, isn't it sad how life works?   He can't help being slightly bothered, anybody would be thinking the man had only months before his retirement pay was set to take him from the torturous life of MI6.    

  
With seconds, wasted dwelling death a shrill honk of a car horn invades his mind and he stares up with mild frustration wishing he could be thinking about Ronson a little longer.  "He's in the black Audi." Eve Moneypenny, driver of the Land Rover he's climbing into states as though he's dying to know.  The absence of the other Agent causes her to glance at him with question, that well known sadness every Agent has held knowing another is dead.  "What about Ronson?" She asks, eyes flickering from the empty seat to Bond who remains emotionless.  

  
The Agents are quiet, Bond looking towards the enemies surrounding almost unfairly.   Sounds of screeching tires trying to narrowly avoid obstacles attacking his eardrums like the Germans invading Poland in 1939,   he's keeping his thoughts open being as open minded but self-positive as possible.   Listening to Eve Moneypenny cursing aloud, it's the sudden sound of smashing glass and the obvious disappearance of a side view mirror that brings Bond into the depth of MI6 Reality.   "That's all right." He speaks like an optimistic parent talking their child's losing streak into something more satisfying.  "You weren't using it." Really; Bond is rather critical watching her wondering if she is deliberately driving carelessly or if she is just not a standardised driver and more a reckless driver.

  
The other side mirror is torn off by a particularly close obsatcle, Bond is rolling his eyes all while hanging a hand out the open window and lazily shooting his target. "I wasn't using that one either," She smirks with a glint of mischief in her brown eyes watching him with a smile before she turns back to the road slowing the Land Rover.   He knows the job is going to be a slow one, watching his enemy jump out of his own Audi and sprinting to a nearby line of motorbikes, Bond follows climbing out the car window and stealing a bike closest the the enemies direction.  He is shooting bullets trying hard to hit his target but fails only by centimetres.

 

_"You both know what's at stake here. We can't afford to lose that list."_

  
He hardly notices his surroundings and like a big slap to the face he's on a moving train, hitting and scratching lumps from his enemy running and sprinting after each other like teenagers in the school playground.    Bond in the least can't be bothered, wanting nothing more than a quiet journey home with the hard-drive in hand before doing nothing more than slipping under the sheets and sleeping for the season.    Agents are not supposed to feel sluggish, they are disciplined people that work hard to keep in the game and Bond is the opposite likely age beginning to effect his effiecency and stability.   He knows the game must be played and he wants nothing more than to spend time readjusting his fatigue and building his skill.

  
He fights with everything he has,  but sometimes you tend to be focused on the enemy that you forget to watch your back.   He feels a hit rupture through his body, the impact so shocking that he takes a stumble that ultimately sends him coursing off the train roof. 

  
She stands holding the rifle, eyes staring through the barrel and her head shoots up looking at the figure on the train staring back her before disappearing free of charge.   She hit the wrong target and she very much had been anticipating she was going to.   But the suddenness is overwhelming, the sound of water rushing and roaring as she stares with wide eyes.  Had M of kept her mouth shut, Bond wouldn't of been shot and confidently she knows he would've finished the job with success.

  
"Agent down," she announces with mourn lowering her rifle.

  
_James Bond, 007 is dead and they haven't a chance of retrieving that list._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any thoughts or feelings about the story so far, I definitely want to hear about it. Comment what you think so far!


	3. Diane Coolidge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit that I hate this introduction as it compares to nothing nearly as well written as Bond's Introduction, but that being said that Bond isn't entirely the main person in the story and he isn't my creation so everyone knows him whilst I'm trying to build information on my OC, not too much character or imagery too quickly. Might I add, it was rushed.

Skyfall

 

"The Show Must Go On"

-Queen, The Show Must Go On (1991)

 

 

 

  
**_August 2011_ **   
**_London, England_ **

 

* * *

_ **Diane Coolidge** _

 

 

 

 

Not even the rays of August sunshine is enough to pull her from her stage of sleep, her eyes closed for the count and her mouth hanging open breaths that are low and soft leaving it.      Her dreams are full of colourful metaphor, crisp imagery and emotional quips that go straight to the heart in roundabout ways.    When conscious, she doesn't understand her dreams,  to her; they are opposite to the woman that glares back in the mirror who years ago was a well paid hitwoman working and killing for America and Britain without opposition, seeing things that no woman should ever have to see without locking herself in a mental barrier in attempt to block her visions.

  
Back in the days of her work experience, Agents were like dominos.   Only the most equipped, well prepared managed to keep running and the lesser Agents were either hunted down by enemy sources or their deaths were self-inflicted after the responsibility and dangers becomes too difficult to bargain and balance.   She, however,  is mostly against suicide and her opinion on the Agents that find this the way out is negative based.   Lately, her thoughts have betrayed the direction of no suicide and suddenly she feels she's trying too hard in being determined to not give into to biological or deliberate collapse, she's destined to suffer at some point and she knows this all to well but she attempts regardless to continue even against all odds. 

  
After leaving the life of an Agent, the development of two sides were more and more apparent to herself inside her mental state.   The triumphant voice of stubborn endurance and then the voice wants to leave the life and quit the show.   The second voice in her head is more permanent, a phycological scar of reflection of her career.  The Loss' from the job and the lives taken because of her. 

  
_I wish to be free_

  
Free, but of what?  She questions the words in her mind everyday and always concludes that freedom is in the place of life.   She wants to leave the show that is her life and many times she tries challenging this thought,  many times she does silly things in hopes her brain can see her life is worth living and the grudges and burdens must lift in order for herself to see.   She is a triumph of will, someone who knows what to do in a tricky situation but sometimes she is the opposite and the triumph of will becomes nothing more than a statement of defiance against fate, only sense set against an ocean of dark doubts and death wishes.   
Not even the shrill ringing of the landline phone is enough to stir her from sleep, instead it's the sudden electricity that shocks her ears and the Nokia Lumia vibrating before hitting the bedroom floor followed by the alarm system sounding wild gradually growing louder by the second.   She groans,  voice low and due to hit consciousness of control as she rolls closer to the edge to switch the ear bleeding alarm off in hope she could go back to sleep.  

  
Her body is now awake, and a weakness overthrows her in a moment of self-vulnerability finding herself coughing a chesty cough.    It's a likely reason to give up smoking, she decides before getting out of bed.   She wraps her dressing gown around her body and takes her walk to the living room where the Landline is screeching waiting to be answered.  
She wishes she hasn't, listening to a voice of her past.  Someone she is dreading and someone she dislikes with a furious passion within.

  
_M_

  
The logical explanation that is given is that she is needed, duty needs her for a last time and if she refuses she will be hunted down and jailed, hardly a variety of choice really.  M is a stubborn woman and they never really were all that close,  the last impression she was given was the old woman disliked her 00 Agent passionately after finding she and another 00 Agent were married legally and not by false terms.     Even then, the divorce was just as legal and a sober decision, but M continued to show her female 00 spiteful attitude as though she were to blame which truly wasn't the case in any form.   She was married because she thought better of her emotions and fell for the man who never quite understood her but chose to keep quiet until he'd had enough and married her in an office because he was intoxicated as was she.

  
_"We need you 005, I can't express how much shit we're all in,"_ M states with genuine emotion in her usually cold demeanour, it's actually amusing hearing a woman of such maladjustment of protocol phone a Ghost to return to duty. 

  
_"You're just as much in danger as every Agent in the organisation, if not the most.  You're the Agent every terrorist would happily watch being tortured given your reliability and your faithfulness to both the Crown and the President."_

  
It's true, everyone at some point will have wanted to watch her die in the most painful of ways and she wishes the statement is a big lie but unfortunately she is one of those two-way Agents who held more secrets than a secret hideaway.   She knew about the American Government and the British Government and possibly more than M herself knew, but that life is supposed to be far behind her and she wishes it was.

  
Instead she's signing her freedom away to save everyone else's Asses from devastating destruction.

  
_Who wants to Live Forever?_

  
The question is from that frame of mind that reminds her that she doesn't want to live any longer with the life of herself being nothing more than a shamble of poisonous brambles and the unachievable want for things she can't have.    Maybe one last Ride on the Wild winds aren't going to be as terrible as she thinks.

  
_It's not dangerous, for me anyway_

  
The lust of something exciting in her boring is something she lusts for these days.   Protecting the chances of her identity is a huge impact on her decision, she doesn't want to be discovered she doesn't want to die after being discovered.  Instead, death out in the field is somewhat more proud with the fact that she will have fought out with more dignity than being drugged in the streets of London unarmed before being tied up and the rest of the gory and too violently horrible to imagine recorded and sent to MI6.

  
_"Yes, M'am I'll do it."_


	4. Enjoying Death

Skyfall 

 

* * *

 

_"Enjoying death"_

 

_-James Bond, Skyfall (2012)_

 

**September 2011**

  
**London, England**

 

* * *

 

**Diane Coolidge**

 

Like the shrivelling flame of a candle,  Diane Coolidge watches the soft glow of Central London whilst listening to the soft hum of the car engine.    In a matter of minutes,  her secretive Empire carved from the life of a Ghosted Agent was surely going to fall brick for brick.      Her eyes casting upon the driver to her right, his features concentrated as the speckles of rain splatter on the windshield.     Diane let out a small sigh at the lack of energy in the confinements of the government car and somehow the anxiety of returning to the life of a 00 brought the same emotions that a child felt walking into schoolgrounds for the first time.

  
The Driver barely spoke,  silent but calm.    Diane had grown used to it after the majority of an hour was spent watching the scenery like an New Yorker Tourist.     She may has well have been one, realising the American edge to a British accent- was visible.  She couldn't help it slipping from time to time, born in Langley and moved to a British Boarding school at a young age had that effect on people.

  
The night sky was a celestial of brightened stars and darkened clouds spitting the cool English rain.  Diane was never an astronomer, but the training in the Cadets many moons ago required an education of the celestial signs.   Watching the stars together and shining brightly like a choir of young children with the same brightness and vibrancy brought a sort of ease to Diane's ghostly conscience with the knowledge of whatever her chances made,  the same canvas of shining twilight would continue to shine against the velvet midnight no matter the outcome. 

  
More and more familiar with the roads ahead,  her thoughts went askew and the horror of knowing close to nothing of her case brought an injustice to Diane's stomach.    Life as an Agent was never planned,  layered with miscommunication and the hopes of some day when the sun could shine in a blood free world shattered at each and every corpse shot down by the same human wishing for a better life.     She never quite understood it all,   living in some world where love was a weakness rather than a simple need or being able to sit watching the fights between countries knowing little of their battles.    Destroying their own landmarks and creations blamed on the opponent countries because their thirsts for blood were rising like Dracula's and Agents watched everyday, sometimes joining the fights.

  
She'd stopped playing for so long that her conscience had become visible and her black and white tinted glasses were painted in hundreds of hues,  colours painting her vision like butterfly wings.     Diane knew the woman behind the desk would have her puppy trained in seconds, or broken down feeling empathetic to the people under 'M' who were likely targeted.   

  
One thing Diane knew stepping out from the jeep and inside the ward that plagued her nightmares,  she was ready to take anything that bulleted her way- even if potentially her life was at the risk.   Her care limited and the guilt of seeing blood hitting her hard.

  
"I was waiting for you to step in,"  Diane wasn't surprised to see M proceeding towards her in a military-like manner, hands clasped behind  her back.   "Welcome back 005," she adds with little warmth in her voice.  Sometimes people forget how much you miss something until it returns,  though she was certain the past Diane Coolidge would differ greatly and spitefully.   

  
Certain her Boss was awaiting for her response, Diane stands to her full height and nods "005 reporting for duty M'am."  M nods, beginning the familiar detour to her Office, the place where every Agent feared to go or treated like the Headmasters of a school enforcing hard discipline.  "First things first," the older woman says pointing to the Gentleman in the navy suit. "005, this is Gareth Mallory.  My replacement as of next year,  depending on the time this  might take- you'll refer Mallory as M."

 

Nodding and taking Mallory's calloused hand for a shake,  Diane felt the bite of her teeth grit together in a tight smile.   Mallory looked like one of those headmasters, belt in hand taking no BS from anyone;  M had always been a little loose on the wagon this way,  she'd been there and done it herself.   MI6 needed the fresh scene of a new leader of their cult, someone the men could square to having nothing to say in objective to his Gender of morals in a situation.    
"Basically," Mallory said bluntly and sharply.  "MI6 has lost a harddrive that holds close to every identity of every Agent 00 to the bloody Q Labs.    So far, the concept of the situation is in the red.  Whoever has the harddrive is in a position to cause a National leakage.   Your name included in the 00 section."

M clears her throat,  "we lost it as well as two Agents and we're running low on recruits.  The Recruitment team have put the Agents in training off the database until we're desperate for uneducated Agents.   Even so, there's no time and we're needing all of the help we can."   

  
It was a little more urgent than she expects, in fact, she felt absurd as her lack of education in technology in the modern world had impacted the development of the world she was an alien to.     The sickening aroma of a terrorist with her and hundreds of  other names in his hand piling in her stomach,   hanging her head low in a silence caused by breathlessness and utter shock.     She knew she was in danger, but nothing like this. 

  
"005, why don't you come back to my flat?  There's a few protocols to go over with you."

 

* * *

 

Diane Coolidge was shocked, the private announcement that the ruthless Agent of chaos was officially pronounced dead.    The announcement itself caused a shiver through her spine,  he was everything MI6 flaunted. The Agent you couldn't seem to get rid of, was suddenly dead  on assignment no less.    Diane wanted to fight for freedom,  if he was dead, she had lesser chances.  If Bond were around he wouldn't of liked hearing the severity without jumping on that bandwagon and going on a killing spree.  If Bond were around,  the thought was an odd one to the one who was practically his Mentor.  He's dead and the feeling was unfamiliar, the amount of close calls and last minute saves- they all thought 007 was the definition of an invincible pain in the Arse.   There were firsts for everything, but death for 007 wasn't just overdue, it was the paper straw crumbling MI6 with it.     The older woman had yet to simply come to terms with the absence of his cockiness and other Agents counted it a blessing placing in their own rides and stunts to be the next Bond.

 

The second best was always Coolidge,  technically she could be better than Bond.   She wasn't a female Bond, just qualified and abled.    Obedient, unlike Bond.

  
When M went to pour herself and her Agent a drink, Diane wanted to disappear in order to keep herself safe.   The dangerous route of going on the run felt worth it for a safety that MI6 couldn't promise her.   But a sound of a glass clinking against a surface made the Head of MI6 cringe indefinitely.  For a second, she panicked expecting a cyber terrorist ready to kill her or the woman standing in a defensive position.   Looking around the room and to the first door that was open ever slightly,  M signalled Diane with a wave of the left hand.   Diane pulled the Gun from her coat pocket, slowly walking towards the living room with M behind. Hands shaking with every step, the thought of killing someone, the cool metal of a Walther gun against her hypersensitive fingertips.  M turned on the light.

  
The sorriest sight of an Agent playing dead. "Where the hell have you been?" M snarled coming face to face with James Bond, supposed to be the late James Bond. "005, you can put down the gun." Diane did what she was told.    Refusing to so much as look at the sight, unable to avoid the strong stench of BO and hard drink.  Bond was looking at M emotionlessly, like she had trained him in order for his guilt to go undetected.

  
"Enjoying death."

 

"Why didn't you call?" M asked, watching him, he was staring at the Woman who was once another name in the lists of reckless Agents, but a mere skeptic to his idiotic.      The question goes unanswered,  Diane feels a little relief that he wasn't the prime advertisement for death.    If he was here alive,  maybe she truly had a chance.     "You didn't get the postcard?" He asked keeping eyes on the woman taking strideful steps toward him with an unreadable expression. "You should try it some time. Get away from it all." He was attempting to show his anger, but he was letting sarcasm surface instead. "It really lends perspective."  
   
"Ran out of drink where you were, did they?"

 

He was getting angry, a canvas of red painting his grimy face while sipping religiously on his liquor.  He sets it down with a soft smile,  turning to M, the smile fades and he scowls. "What was it you said?" Bond asked, M kept staring at him. "Take the bloody shot." The sarcasm getting stronger and stronger. M rolled her eyes,  expecting as such from the Agent who probably would've been better off dead.

 

"I made a judgment call." M defended herself. Bond shook his head.

 

"You should have trusted me to finish the job." He snapped.

  
"It was the possibility of losing you or the certainty of losing all those other agents." M replied, cold and strict. Bond scoffed. His eyes meeting Coolidge's. "Bond could you stop eyeing your replacement!" Bond rolled his eyes turning to M.  "I made the only decision I could and you know it." Bond chuckled to himself with sarcastic intention. "What do you expect, a bloody apology?" M snarled. "You know the rules of the game. You've been playing it long enough." She sighed remembering Mallory's conversation earlier that week, the day MI6 was blown to smithereens. "We both have."

 

"Maybe too long." Bond glared at M causing Diane to scoff. Bond didn't find it charming of her rather surprised to see her in the flesh after hearing years ago she'd been killed on assignment.  His theory was that she'd been caught with the Joker's card, caught in the game of death. "Speak for yourself." He muttered merely to the opposing Agent, M rolled her eyes at Bond's childish behaviour. "Ronson didn't make it, did he?" M shook her head. "So this is it. We're both played out."

 

"Well, if you believe that, why did you come back?" Diane asks, eyebrows rising and voice soft, M nodded in agreement almost about to ask the same.

 

"Good question."

 

"Because we're under attack. And you know we need you." M simply said. Bond nodded. "You'll have to be debriefed and declared fit for active service. You can only return to duty when you've passed the tests, so take them seriously. 005,  the same applies." Bond went to leave. "And a shower might be in order."

 

"I'll go home and change."

 

"Oh, we've sold your flat, put your things into storage. Standard procedure on the death of an unmarried employee with no next of kin. Should have called."

 

"I'll find a hotel."

 

"Well, you're bloody well not sleeping here."


End file.
